


link()

by pseudocitrus



Series: compile() [2]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Camerata, Gen, Pre-Canon, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Royce leaned over to peer at the music player. “Who is it?”</p><p>Sybil took a breath. She didn’t answer immediately. The voice washed over her, filled all her empty spaces, rose and fell and rose again in her chest like the waves that surrounded her Sandbox: crashing, crashing, crashing.</p><p>Finally, she answered. Softly. Eyes closed.</p><p>“Our next candidate.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Declined

**Author's Note:**

> \+ Camerata/Rebil headcanons! This fic takes place during the disappearances.  
> \+ This story fits between [preprocess()](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2369180/chapters/5231762) and [start()](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1797484/chapters/3854707). The first isn’t a requirement to this one. This story contains SPOILERS for the second. (If that matters. I mean I guess we all kinda know where this is going)  
> \+ Anyway, I have to be real with you, the pacing of this whole thing is kinda weird. I blame it on the fact that it's a little more "wish-fulfillment" than the other fics in this series, in the sense that I really just focused more on my enjoyment of writing and exploring Sybil's character, rather than telling something totally coherent or elegant.  
> \+ And with all that being said...if you take the time to read, I hope you enjoy :)

( _5.years.ago_ )

 

A woman was glaring up at the banner across the venue entrance. She mouthed the words written on it with messy paint.

_Traverson’s Finest._

And then she rubbed her forehead.

Was this actually happening?

“Sybil!” someone called, and she lifted her glare to a man walking out of the venue: West Ableton. Civil Planning, Politics. 

“Why,” demanded, “doesn’t this banner say what I told you to put on it?”

“Um — what?” He blinked and glanced up at it. “Doesn’t it?”

“No. It does not. This,” Sybil said, slowly, “is a reception for up-and-coming Civil Planners. Shouldn’t it say so on _your own banner_?”

“Well, hello to you too,” he said dryly. “Glad you could make it.”

“Glad I could too,” she muttered, walking past him. “Especially since the venue was changed three times.”

Rather than fight to keep her recommended location every time a highway or park or bridge had encroached, West had simply uprooted and dumped the event into the nearest available building, regardless of in-progress preparations. Or plans. Or _capacity limitations_.

He followed her with a thin smile. “Well, you know how these things go.”

“And you know how they _should_ go.”

She ignored whatever jibe he had for her, ignored him as he trailed after her. West had asked her to put the event together for him as a favor from one old classmate to another — not that her pride as an Organizer and Supervisor would have allowed her to decline him. But she’d rather be in the Country than socialize with him more than was necessary.

Fortunately, there were many others here, including old classmates and their associated partners and children. Sybil initiated her usual process of greetings and introductions, and the moment West got caught up in peripheral conversation, she broke away to examine the student projects in peace.

Cloudbank was expanding, and the students in the crowded hall — “ _Traverson’s finest!_ ” — were going to be the first to iterate on its landscape. Each student had tables with samples of their work: detailed sketches, elaborate models, vibrant dioramas. There were apartments chiseled into cliffsides, complexes curled around creeks, promenades circuited around fountains of every shape and splash.

Sybil walked through, delight replacing her foul mood with every step. Everything was so — _amazing_. She introduced herself warmly to every creator, saving names and pronouns into her terminal. Gayle Amaatz, Civil Planning and Writing, whose bridge struts were made of words that fluttered across their tenses with the breeze. Nia Terrace, Civil Planning and Horticulture, who whose garden-walled plazas waxed and waned with the seasons.

Sybil tugged at her hair, twining it so tightly around her finger that the top digit turned red. It was infuriating that, given Cloudbank’s vagaries, none of these projects would ever last longer than a month. And that was if any of them managed to gather the votes to be built at all.

_We’re working on it,_ she reminded herself. _Deep breath._

_Deep breath,_ she told herself again as she heard West’s heavy footsteps catching up to her.

“Hello,” Sybil said, looking firmly at Nia and extending her hand. “I’m Sybil.”

“Sybil?” Nia gasped. Her hand reached toward Sybil’s, trembled a bit in her grip. “Sybil _Reisz_? But — but how — you came here in _person_?”

“Connections,” West said proudly. “We used to go to school together.”

“Not that I wouldn’t have come to see Traverson’s finest myself,” Sybil told her warmly. Though, thankfully, there was just one project left. Sybil scanned it, appraised it. Then she feigned checking her terminal.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” Sybil said apologetically. “It was nice to meet you.”

“W-wait,” Nia said, “Sybil — Miss Sybil — there’s there’s one more here.” She pointed back at the project Sybil had looked over, and Sybil held back a sigh and returned to it. The person standing with it stiffened, shoulders bunching, as Sybil scrutinized their work.

It was a sort of...amphitheater? And around it were…boxes? Of some kind? The three Civil Planners stared as her eyes narrowed in thought. Finally, the creator — a woman, said the tag on her table — shoved her red hair behind one ear and cleared her throat.

“What are you searching for?”

Sybil glanced up. She tilted her head, grasping for the right words.

“Fantastic Civil Planning is…a joy,” she said, picking up the amphitheater and smiling at it faintly. “It’s a joy to look at. It’s a joy to _be_ in. When you’re there, it’s like…like someone has thought of you, of everything you need, of everything you never knew you wanted. And then they _made_ it, just for you. It’s a gift.

“Those thoughts, those emotions, that raw talent…” She set the amphitheater down. “I don’t see any of that here.”

The woman paled.

“H-hey!” Nia shouted. “What the — y-you — where do you get off saying things like that? What do you know about Civil Planning, anyway?!”

“That’s Sybil for you!” West laughed, and Sybil reddened. “Don’t worry, your work is just fine.“

“Correct,” Sybil snapped at him. “ _Just_ fine. And nothing else.” She turned back to the woman, who straightened under Sybil’s gaze. Her eyes were set in an impressive glare, prepared to fight even as Nia grabbed her hand.

“Not worth it,” Nia hissed.

“She’s right,” Sybil said, “it’s not.” She pointed at the amphitheater, at the seats and stage, all lumps and angles that didn’t quite meet: clumsy, ugly, heartless. A travesty.

“Think about it,” Sybil continued, leaning toward her. “Think hard. Think about if you had a whole city to yourself, if you could do anything you wanted. If anything was possible, if you had no limits…what would you do?”

The woman opened her mouth.

And then shut it.

“You don’t need to answer her,” Nia said, gripping the woman’s hand and drawing closer.

“Right again,” Sybil said, smiling humorlessly. “Don’t give me an answer if you don’t have one.”

She smoothed out her skirt, arranged her hair. “Excuse me,” she said, nodding to the three of them, and left.


	2. To shape the present, and the past

_Ms. Gilande,_

_It is our pleasure to extend to you an invitation to a private Banquet, held in recognition of those individuals who have gone above and beyond to contribute to our great city._

_The incredible professionalism and detail with which you have labored for the good of Cloudbank is nothing less than exemplary, and it would be our honor to thank you personally for your efforts. Your work played a fundamental role to what our beloved city is today, and continues to be an inspiration to what we will be in the future._

_Attached are all relevant event details. Please RSVP as soon as possible, and do let us know if you have questions. As this is a private event, we appreciate discretion regarding the enclosed information._

_Ms. Gilande, thank you, for all that you have done! We dearly hope to see you!_

:::

Sybil tugged the Transistor from its holder. It was light — surprisingly light, for something with a person in it. She tucked it in the crook of her left elbow, child-like.

Someone was _in_ there. She squinted. Did it seem kind of greener now? Was it, at the very least, smarter?

Kinder?

The Transistor buzzed unpleasantly against her pulse. She frowned and released it, letting the gold bars across its top _thunk_ against the ground.

Something in the sound of it, or in her body language, must have wrung poorly, because Grant’s next words were a reassurance. “All this is necessary, you know.”

“I know that,” Sybil snapped, harder than intended. She tried to set the Transistor back in its holder, and winced when it jarred slightly out of place and sputtered sparks that nipped at her calves.

Royce glanced at her, eyebrow raised. Was he skeptical too? She bristled.

“What do you think has the most power in this city? All your zeroes and ones? It’s not math and gears and flashy lights. Cloudbank isn’t just spat out by a formula.”

Somehow, Royce’s eyebrow rose even higher. “I beg to differ,” he said, hefting the Transistor up himself and setting it into the holder properly. “I would explain what would happen if the Transistor remained away from its Cradle too long — but I doubt you’ll want to know. Suffice to say that the consequences will amount to more than flashy lights.”

“Enough,” Grant sighed. “Both of you.”

They looked back at him with blinking, confused innocence. _Who? Us?_

After the success of this first endeavor, Grant should have exhibited a _little_ pleasure. Sybil evaluated him, sitting back on a table, and when Grant examined himself in a mirror for the second time (staring at the front of his suit — staring at the side of it — then the front again), the light went off in her head.

“Everything will go fine,” she told him, making a smile.

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking up at her in the mirror.

“I organized it, didn’t I?” She walked toward him. “You’ve got Cloudbank’s best restaurant. The finest fare it can render. Its best Sommelier. Most importantly,” she said, straightening his tie, “you’ve got Cloudbank’s best administrator.”

He took a deep breath.

“Thank you, Sybil.”

“Go, already!” she laughed, and patted his shoulder. He took another breath, gathering his nerves, and took off. Once he was safely gone, she relaxed; the smile dropped from her face, and she fell with a sigh back to a seat at the table. It had been a long day. She closed her eyes. Furrowed her brows as the Transistor’s light burned through her eyelids.

“Do you have someone else in mind?” Royce asked. Sybil opened her eyes again, just long enough to roll them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ♥()


	3. Pursuit of beauty

_“Mr. Darzi! Hello there.”_

_“Wh-what? Who...who’re...who’re you?”_

_”Oh, have you forgotten me? It’s me, Mr. Darzi, Sybil. Sybil Reisz. We’ve worked together a couple times. Do you remember?”_

_“No, I...yes, I...yes. B-but...wait...why’re you — is this a fashion show? I was...the rreaason I’m here is...that is..._ ”

_“Yes, don’t worry, I know. Oh, watch out for — oh! Nevermind. Here, take my arm, you’re a little unsteady.”_

_”No, it’s — don’t, m-my hands are — no. I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay. This is…the whole thing...this’ll be private, correct?”_

_”Don’t worry! You’ll have the utmost privacy. This way, please.”_

:::

“This last candidate seemed...a little obvious,” Royce remarked.

Sybil shot him a glare. “Meaning?”

“Meaning exactly what I said. He was too beloved. Flashy. Someone will notice.”

“He’s been on his way out,” Sybil insisted. “It makes sense. And he’s _exactly_ what we need.”

The type of person whose skill was so incredible it could be traded for the good of a thousand others. The type of person they needed to inspire the love of others, and use it properly.

“I agree,” Asher said. He stopped pacing; he looked up, thoughtful. “It was a good call on Sybil’s part. I’ll drop something in the OVC to smooth it over.”

“Sounds good,” Grant said, and his tone said, _It’s finished now, let’s move forward._

But Royce’s eyes were still narrow. Sybil stood and stamped toward him.

“What were you expecting?” she demanded. “I have things to do. _Commitments._ For one thing, a friend of mine needs me to help her campaign for an animal shelter in Goldwalk. It’s going to be gorgeous — and functional, usable, large enough take care of all the strays in Cloudbank. We’re in the third week of campaigning and everything rests on — _fine_.” She huffed as Royce gave her a look that said, _Spare me the details._ “In any case, even if I had more time, I only have access to so much information.”

“About that,” he said, and held out his hand. Sybil gasped and leaped back — then blinked, and leaned forward, with both Grant and Asher.

“Is that…?”

“Process,” Royce said. It rolled in his palm, whirring, purring. Tangible. _Obedient._

“H-how…?”

Royce nodded at the Transistor.

“Incredible,” Grant breathed. “This — this could change everything.”

Sybil shook her head. “Controlling Process. What’s next? Making clouds into pets? Taming the stars?”

“If you like,” Royce answered. His voice was airy. He lifted his finger and let the Process roll slowly down his wrist. “Though I think these have functions you’ll find more interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ♥()


	4. Everyone deserves the best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \+ Hello! I think there are a couple people following this fic, and you all might miss the "overall fic note" that I've prepended to the first chapter of this story....so I thought I'd duplicate it here.  
> \+ Basically, I've finished the whole fic now (and am in the process of uploading all the chapters at once). And now that it's done, I have to be real with you: the pacing of the whole thing is kinda weird. I blame it on the fact that this story is more "wish-fulfillment" than the others in this series, in the sense that I really just focused more on my enjoyment of writing and exploring Sybil's character, rather than telling something totally coherent or elegant.  
> \+ And with all that being said...if you take the time to read, I hope you enjoy :)

_“Ms. Chein. Are you alright?”_

_“Yes. Yes I...I should be fine. It’s just those b — oh, I shouldn’t say that. Oh, I can’t believe I lost it. Th-thank you thank you so much, all of you.”_

_“Of course. We believe in your work. Me, most of all.”_

_“You...ah, you do?”_

_”Yes! We should never forget to help those who need it the most.”_

_”W-well — yes! Yes, that’s — that’s exactly my stance. W-well — thank you! It’s nice to know I’m not alone…ah…”_

_“Oh! I completely forgot. I’m Sybil Reisz, Ms. Chein. These are my associates.”_

_“Reisz? Yes, that’s familiar I’ve heard of you. And — Mr. Kendrell! Yes, I recognize you. But…why...?”_

_“Just to let you know. If you ever need support in the future, with anything anything at all please. Call. Here’s my address.”_

_“I...why, thank you. I...most certainly will.”_

:::

“We should be able to use Goldwalk more effectively now,” Sybil muttered, staring down at her terminal.

“Thank you, Sybil,” Grant and Asher said in unison; they glanced at each other in surprise, smiled, laughed. Sybil and Royce exchanged glances, released sighs that were identical in their imperceptibility.

Grant and Asher retired early, as usual. When Royce made to leave himself, Sybil said, “Leave the lights on.”

He paused at the doorframe. “You’re not planning to stay here, are you?”

She shrugged. He lingered, considering.

“You’re upset about the shelter,” he decided.

Five weeks of hard campaigning to get it up — her friend’s beaming face as she realized she would be able to provide a home for hundreds of animals — and then all of it destroyed, less than a week later, by a single ballot. For a _donut shop._

> _I’m sorry_ , she written, afterward. But she’d been unable to press “Send.”

Who was she, if she couldn’t even perform her work correctly? What use was she at all, to anyone?

Whatever. It didn’t matter. Once her work with the Camerata was complete, all the things she did to help everyone would stay. She would be of real, lasting use. Her best would finally be enough. And when someone said farewell to her, they would come back.

“It’s just a good reminder of what all our work is for,” she muttered, not looking up from her terminal. Royce wandered back, watching curiously as she opened a couple screens that were linked to Process across the city.

“I wonder if it would do you good to have a friend,” he said, and Sybil snorted.

“What are you talking about? _Everyone’s_ my friend.”

He pointed at her terminal, at its various windows and subjects. A young woman consoling another with wiry hair, both surrounded by jewel-colored birds and an orange dog. A woman humming to herself as she glanced at the sky, fingers dancing over beakers and dusts. A young man throwing down a ball with a scream, a grin, a shrieking crowd.

“You mean these people?” he asked, corner of his mouth tilting up.

“Yes,” she snapped. “You know, maybe you should get some friends of your own.”

He smiled at her. The room gave a shudder, a twitch, a flicker. Across the walls, red eyes shuddered open, and closed again an instant later, settling back into simple wallpaper and brick.

“I gave quite a lot of them to you,” he told her, “but don’t worry. I still have plenty left.”


	5. What's life without a little risk?

_> Hey. This the right address?_

_> Olmarq! Hello! How are you?_

_> Good. Well, alright. Yeah I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and you know I think I’m gonna take you up on that offer of yours. If you’re still offering haha._

_> Of course we are! To be honest, we’re happy to finally be hearing from you._

_> Haha yeah well. Guess it was kinda silly for me to take a while to think about it huh. It’s not like retirement’s any riskier than the stuff I’ve done in the stadium, right?_

:::

A chef laughing and kissing another chef so fiercely that their toques tumbled off. Two women in white suits, foreheads touching.

“They didn’t invite me,” Sybil mumbled. Their rings glittered, over and over again, as the videos looped.

“You’re a busy person,” Royce pointed out. “They probably assumed you wouldn’t be free.”

“So? So they didn’t even bother asking? I would have gone! No matter what was happening!”

Silence, while he considered.

“I don’t even recognize these people from newsfeeds of your events,” he noted. “And when you’re not off mingling somewhere, you’re just sitting around here. Have you even spoken to any of these people recently?”

“One of them was the one I tried to help with the shelter,” she admitted in a mumble. The failed shelter.

Wisely, Royce didn’t pursue that specific topic. He adjusted the collar of his shirt and pointed at her screen.

“These were events, right?” he tried. “Why didn’t you just invite yourself? Or ask to help?”

Sybil’s temper flared. She straightened sharply, hair billowing, storm-like.

“ _That’s not the point!_ ” she screamed. “Why am _I_ always the one inviting people? Why doesn’t anyone ever invite _me_? Aren’t these people supposed to be my friends? We all went to school together! We were friends! I thought that would be — relationships like that — they should last _forever_!”

She was practically out of breath.

“Sorry, Royce,” she spat. “For yelling.” She didn’t sound particularly apologetic, but knew she needed to say it.

“It’s…alright,” Royce said uncertainly. “Ah, that is…I’ll listen…if you need to talk further.” He sounded uncomfortable with the prospect, though, and Sybil snorted, swiping at her eyes.

“No,” she said, shoving her terminal across the table. “I just want to be alone. I want — a place without anyone around, for once.”

A place without anyone, without screens, without constant buzzing and opinions and votes. Without destruction. Without the stabbing reminder of all the things that kept slipping through her gripping fingers.

“I just get sick of it all,” she mumbled into the table, gripping her hair with both hands. “Sick of this whole stupid city.”

“Ah,” Royce said. “Now _that_ is something I can help with.”

She looked up at him, bleary-eyed, as he explained.

“That sounds...” She searched for words. Unnecessary. Extravagant. _Dangerous._ The existence of something like “back doors” just meant there were more ways they could be compromised.

_“Royce!”_ she hissed when he took up the Transistor.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ve done my research. I have a suspicion of what you’d like.”

“That’s not what I —!”

But he ignored her. His mind had found its track; all that was left was execution. He lifted the Transistor up and buried it into the wall, where it sank as if into water. The wallpaper swelled with surface tension, glittered, swayed as he gave it a good stir. When he withdrew it, a seam remained in the structure, all glowing hard shifts and angles. As she approached, its edges parted, and exhaled a salted breeze.

Sybil gasped and stepped forward, onto warm and golden sand.


	6. Everyone wears a mask, right?

_“Yes...yes...YES! I did it! YEAH!”_

_“Pardon me! Excuse me, pardon me — Mr. Shasberg?”_

_“What?! What the — shoot — who —”_

:::

Her Sandbox was perfect. She ran out into its center, spinning, arms spread. In Cloudbank, it was raining — a chaos of loud, mushy, messy rain that had overtaken the vote for peaceful skies in the last hour. But here, the weather was perfectly calm.

Sybil’s umbrella flapped shut, and she stabbed it into the sand. She inhaled part of a passing breeze, relished the coolness and sweetness, the way it combed through her hair but didn’t tug it out of order. Then she spun around, back toward Royce.

“How much can you add to it?”

“How much can you think of?” Royce asked back. When she didn’t reply immediately, he jammed the Transistor into the ground, and as something rose from the sand, he took a step back — and back — and _back_ — until the creation finally stopped growing.

Sybil couldn’t help it; she laughed.

“What is _that_? A _tree_?”

“I hope it appeals to your sensibility.”

“It’s — yeah! I like it!” She’d never seen Royce do anything creative in her life. It was so — big! And _organic!_ She tilted her head.

“Make it twist a little,” she said, and he waved the Transistor. It emitted a strum and a spark; and then, there it was. A graceful, knitted bend.

Perfect! She tilted her head to the other side, tapped her cheek. “Can we add a hammock?” she asked, and Royce waved the Transistor again. A strum, a spark; and there it was, swinging in the tree’s shade. Sybil laughed and clapped.

“Amazing! Fantastic! How about fish?”

_Strummm, spark!_

“And, the other day I saw someone make these beautiful glass orbs —”

_Strummm, spark!_

“And —”

“Alright,” Royce interrupted. “I’m not interested in staying here forever.”

“Come onnn, Royce!” She grabbed his sleeve and attempted to pull him further from the Back Door. “Don’t you want to try my hammock?”

“Not particularly.”

“But! It looks so cozy!” And when he didn’t budge: “Come on, won’t you give me some company? Just a little?”

“I thought,” he said, looking down at her, “this was supposed to be the space where you could be alone.”

“I…w-well, yes, but…”

But that was before it seemed like they were having fun together. She sat on her hammock, squirming until she had balance, and then pulled out her terminal. She made herself sigh.

“You’re right. I have lots of work to do.”

“Me too.” But he stayed, just a little longer, eyeing the Transistor. For a second she thought he was reconsidering staying after all, and she straightened excitedly. But then —

_Strummm._

A figure assembled on the sand, with a swoosh and crackle. It was golden, lithe, four-legged; it shook its body, scattered its rough edges. It looked up at Royce with a face that was unmistakably canine, and grinning. Royce nodded to Sybil, and Sybil blinked as the dog’s head whipped around. It emitted a bark and bounded toward her.

“What? _What is that?_ ” she cried. She hastily lifted her legs from the ground, curling herself up in the hammock, out of reach.

“Company,” Royce answered, setting the Transistor over one shoulder and heading out. “Let me know if it exhibits any unusual behaviors.”

“ _What_? Royce! I don’t even like dogs!”

But Royce was already gone. The dog paced beneath her hammock, emitting a buzzy panting noise, tilting its head. She frowned down at it and then cupped her hands around her mouth.

“ _Royce_!” she shouted. “Come back! Dismiss it! Or just give it to Asher! It would go good with his cat, right?”

But her voice just echoed and faded against the crashing of the waves.

“Ro —” she started, one last time, but cut herself off. The dog was sniffing the hammock — it was lifting its paws up onto the edge of it —

“ _Sto —_ ” she shrieked, but it was too late; the dog started to climb into the hammock, clumsily, upsetting the weight distribution. Sybil screamed as both of them toppled into the sand in a flurry of skirts and chrome limbs.


	7. Big ideas that's why!

_“Alright, let’s get this thing started! I’m here with...now, what is it again, my friend?”_

_“The Camerata.”_

_“Ah, yes, Ca-mer-ata. Wave Tennegan here, with the Camerata.”_

_”Mr. Tennegan, didn’t we agree you wouldn’t disclose details of our identity?”_

_”Ah — that is — ah, yes. Thank you for the reminder. This isn’t for the show, just for my personal records. I can edit it later, no worries, no worries. Ah, perhaps we should just move on. What was it that you wanted to show —?”_

:::

A reception for up-and-coming talent. She had organized it some weeks back: a couple magician-like flourishes over her terminal, and the details were pulled together as easily as any building. Minus the debates and arguments and all the rest of that time-consuming nonsense.

“That’s what’s nice about events,” Sybil mused aloud, kicking her foot against the sand to give the hammock a good swing. “They come and they go and they can’t be ruined by mass stupidity way after the fact.”

The dog lifted its head at the sound of her voice, wagged its tail enthusiastically. It whipped sand into her face, and Sybil’s face puckered as she snapped, “Stop that.”

The dog stilled immediately. Sybil blinked. Since when did dogs ever listen _that_ closely?

She slid off the hammock, brushing sand off her lap, and began to make her exit, calling out a firm “ _Stay_ ” as the dog attempted to follow.

The reception itself was scheduled uncomfortably close to a Yon-Dale that she wanted to attend, but she decided to drop by anyway, in the unlikely event there was someone there who wasn’t yet on her radar.

She entered, made the requisite greetings, began her rounds: eyeing instruments, stepping into sound bubbles, fitting headphones cautiously over her hair. She made notes in her terminal and was on the way out when she heard it.

_A voice._

Her heart skipped a beat — then another — and then sped up, racing to make up for lost time. She crammed her terminal into her purse, ran back into the venue, rushing like a moth to a bulb, practically crashing into a couple chairs arranged before the stage. She looked up, and closed her widened eyes, letting the voice sink and thrum in every vein. It was — fantastic. It was —

“A-amazing,” Sybil gasped as soon as the singer stepped down from the stage. They jumped as Sybil grabbed their hand and yanked so that they (and their nametag) faced her. Sybil squinted at it.

“Red?”

“Ah — yes —”

“Red. Hi. I — I’m Sybil,” Sybil managed, shaking her hand vigorously. “Um, that is, Reisz, Sybil Reisz. I’ve never heard anything like you before — I — I can’t believe — I —”

What was she _doing_? Sybil flushed, mortified by her own stammering, but the singer just laughed.

“So…I take it that it’s more than just fine?”

“Wh-what? Yes, of course!”

With some horror, she realized that she was still holding Red’s hand. She was still _shaking_ it. She released it so abruptly she practically threw it, and then gasped, “Sorry! Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Red said, pushing her hair over one ear. She was watching Sybil with a faint, amused, lovely smile. Sybil swallowed.

“Do you — do you have any more music? That I can listen to?”

“Yeah,” Red said. Sybil instructed her on how to send it to her terminal, and as soon as Sybil returned back to her Sandbox, she tugged Royce in to conjure her a music player.

“Listen,” she said, feeding the files in eagerly. Soon, Red’s voice emerged from the speaker — pure and clear — like crystal, like light.

“Isn’t it _gorgeous_?” Sybil breathed.

“I suppose.” Royce leaned over to peer at the music player. “Who is it?”

Sybil took a breath. She didn’t answer immediately. The voice washed over her, filled all her empty spaces, rose and fell and rose again in her chest like the waves that surrounded her Sandbox: crashing, crashing, crashing.

Sybil rubbed her arms, smoothed down the goosebumps. Oh, Red had talent. She had _power._

“Who is it?” Royce asked again.

Sybil answered, softly. Eyes closed.

“Our next candidate.”


	8. break

She asked Royce to fetch her all of Red’s available music files, but the quality wasn’t the same. There was no _warmth_ , no _power_ , so she queried her Process for Red’s next concerts, raked out the crucials from the data they returned to her. She attended one, and then another, and then another, startled to find that each one was better than the last.

Well, almost.

“Almost?” Red echoed. An amused smile unfurled across her face. She traced a finger over the rim of her mug, tugged out a tea bag.

Sybil had caught up with her after a performance, and at Red’s suggestion, gone to a cafe. Sybil arranged her back on her lap and rotated her stool to face Red. 

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said. “Your choice of venues is appalling.”

“It’s — _what_?” She burst out laughing, and Sybil’s nose wrinkled.

“It really isn’t funny,” Sybil told her. “The quality of your music is reduced _significantly_ in those places. Too much reverberation — not the right ambiance — not to mention the state of the equipment you’ve been using, all of that really needs to be re-cycled! Additionally, you barely have any posters or _anything_ to advertise —”

“So,” Red said, sipping, “does this mean that you’re offering to organize all my next performances?”

Sybil cleared her throat. “I — well — that is, if you’d like me to —”

Red laughed again. “Relax, Sybil. You’re the best in Cloudbank, of course I’d like you to. If _you’d_ like to, anyway. But if you don’t mind,” she said, “maybe we could save business discussions for later.”

“Sure,” Sybil agreed, gathering her things and standing. “Just send me a message when you’re free. You should still have my address.”

“Wait — where are you going?”

Sybil blinked, stopped. “I thought — didn’t you say —?”

“Business later,” Red said, putting a hand on her arm and yanking her back down into her seat. “But I’ve got some free time. Do you? Let’s chat.”

_Let’s chat._

Sybil gaped, no better than of Royce’s programs churning on unexpected input. “A-alright,” she managed belatedly, sitting back down and almost missing the chair. She cleared her throat. “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

“Well…” Red’s gaze tipped upward, then around the room. “What do you think of this cafe?”

“It’s fine,” Sybil answered with a shrug. “But not large enough to be a venue. And not near enough to any venue for you, either.”

“That’s not…” Red coughed. “Well, how about food? Is there any restaurant that you like around here?”

Sybil closed her eyes, thinking. “Yeah. Turner’s, a block down. The best in the city. You know,” she said, bending down to compose a message on her terminal, “I bet I could get them to cater.”

“Ah…okay. Well, that’s — good to know for later, I guess. Oh — how about — have you seen any good shows lately?”

“No,” Sybil said, pressing _Send_ and tucking her terminal away again. “The whole state of performance arts is lagging. With you being the exception. Which is why I’m really looking forward to organizing—”

“Alright,” Red sighed. “I give up. Let’s go.”

“Go?” Sybil stood as Red did, and followed her as she strode out the door. “Go where?”

To a game center, it turned out.

“What are we doing here?” Sybil asked as Red peered into a couple crane and arcade machines. She grinned as she spotted a vacant machine, and set her hands on Sybil’s shoulders, guiding her in front of the controls.

Red’s fingers flew across the buttons until the screen said _Ready!_ Neon monsters began to lumber and hop across the screen. Sybil stiffened.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she blurted.

“It’s fine.”

“No, you don’t understand, I _really_ don’t know how to do this!”

“And I’m telling you, it’s fine. Look, you’re this kid here, in the center of the screen. All you need to know is you use this to move him” — Red took Sybil’s hand and placed it on a stick of some kind — “and you press _this_ button to use your hammer, and this other one to use your bow. Press it now and try to shoot something.”

“Shoot what? Shoot _at_ what?” But Sybil pressed the button anyway, and jumped as Red yelled close to her ear.

“There! Good! You got it!”

“What? I got what?”

“You got the enemy! See how it split up into those smaller blue things? Go for those next.”

“ _Go_? Do you mean shoot them? Or use the hammer? Wait, where are you going?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll join your game from the next machine over.”

“What? You’ll what?” Sybil cried, but Red was gone already, leaving her to do nothing but mash the controls desperately to shoot arrows and dodge lines of caustic slime. The bars at the top of her screen were becoming small and scarlet, and the kid was beginning to hunch with exhaustion as he ran, and she doubted either of those was a good thing.

She wheeled the stick desperately. The kid was staggering and Sybil felt her face growing furiously heated. This was so stupid, this was so hopeless, she hated games and how unproductive and relentlessly, needlessly complicated they were, what was the point of making something that only prevented people from doing things? The kid was reeling now, cornered up against the void at the edge of the land, the whole screen was turning hazy, and —

“Sybil! _Here!_ ”

Another character appeared on the map in a flurry of colored skirts — it flung a sort of potion — the screen cleared up immediately, and Sybil jerked and began moving again, mashing violently as Red’s kid raced around the screen with her. Sybil bit her lip, concentrating, soon falling into a strange sort of rhythm as Red stunned enemies and left them open for a good smack. Together, they mowed down the next round of aggressive water droplets, and then the next round of ghost-looking things, and then the next round of metal bulls, and then the next round of…

“That’s it?” Sybil said, surprised, as the words _Win!_ fell across the screen. “It’s over?”

“Yup,” Red said, glancing at her from the other machine. “It’s over.”

“But it was so fast!”

“Was it? It’s been forty-five minutes at least.”

Sybil checked her terminal, pushing aside a couple of messages to check the time. “It has,” she realized.

“Great job, by the way,” Red said. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever actually got to the end. You’re a natural.”

“Th-thanks,” Sybil said, breathlessly. The game was over, but her body hadn’t quite caught up yet. Her heart was racing. She looked down at her hands and saw both of them were shaking. The left one had formed into a sort of claw into which the machine’s stick fit perfectly.

“Do you want to play again?” Sybil found herself asking.

Red smiled. “I’d love to.”

:::

They conquered all the games at that particular center, and, having given up on winning anything from the crane machines, moved on to other activities. Sybil was always busy; but, every time there was a reception, or an opening, or an anniversary, or a festival, she appended Red to the guest list.

Much to Sybil’s dismay, Red didn’t always attend. But whenever she sent word that she would, Sybil waited at the entrance, bouncing from foot to foot until she caught sight of that distinctive hair; and then she would rush forward and greet her with a hug and an excited whisper.

“Want to grab dessert afterward?”

Or, “Want to give the crane games another try?”

Or, “Want to talk a walk on the new promenade?”

“Sure,” Red would agree, and no matter what the event was, it would suddenly feel so much more exciting, and perfect, and effortless.

It wasn’t that things were — _bad_ when Red couldn’t make it. All Sybil’s plans would always go just fine.

But it was different when there was someone there, for her. When there was someone circling back from the buffet table with a drink, for her. When that someone was holding a barely-concealed grin and reaching out with a cupped hand to shield some special observation, for _her._

“That person,” Red said in a quiet, warm voice. “Do you see him? That person in the huge get-up. No, to the left — the one with the blue satin.”

“West Ableton?” Sybil asked, and Red snickered.

“Really? I barely recognize him.” She squinted, then shook her head. “Well, do you see how his clothing has that sort of ballooning effect? And the gold patchy bits?”

“Yes...”

“Does it remind you of something?”

Sybil considered. She took a sip of champagne — and then on it choked as she realized.

_He looked like an enemy from the arcade game._

Red patted her back as Sybil coughed agonizing, happy laughter.

:::

Red left the Organization of her performances to Sybil, who arranged them with pride and glee. Other than advising Red on wardrobes and venues, Sybil gave no other recommendations, despite the fact that some of Red’s choices were leading to some dark mutterings, and rants.

Red never discussed her controversy, never paid it any mind. It was yet another aspect of her confidence that Sybil found so enthralling. Red never made excuses, never did what she didn’t want to do, never went to lengths to justify her desires — such as quitting Traverson to start a late Selection in Music, for apparently no reason at all. She did what she wanted, shamelessly, even if what she wanted was to order flatbread to her apartment for four days in a row.

“There are other things that you can eat, you know,” Sybil told her, straightening the stack of flatbread boxes by her door. “Cloudbank doesn’t lack for food options. If you’re having trouble choosing, I can give you some recommendations.”

“Mm mmnnoo,” Red replied. Sybil laughed.

_“What?”_

Red chewed hastily and swallowed. “I said, ‘I know.’ But I like flatbread. Besides, every time I leave my apartment I pass that new game center.”

“So?”

“So! I still can’t get anything out of the crane machines. It’s depressing.”

“I’m sure you’ll get something soon. You can do anything,” Sybil told her, fully believing it.

Red eyed her as she demolished another flatbread slice. “You seem to have a lot of faith in me,” she remarked once her bite had gone down, and Sybil felt her face warm.

“W-well — if there’s anyone in Cloudbank who knows your capability, it’s me.” She said it airily, but felt flustered, and covered it up by rummaging around in her purse for nothing. “You definitely have a better chance than me of getting something out of there.”

“Well,” Red told her, holding out a slice of flatbread, “I’m just as sure you could do it too. So there.”

Things were so different around Red. She was a bright light against which all the things that Sybil hated became dim and small. With Red, it didn’t matter that Sybil had failed the animal shelter campaign. It didn’t matter that Cloudbank was a huge mess, that none of her accomplishments would ever last, that saving it relied totally on her choice of candidates, that no one ever spoke to her unless they wanted her to do something...

With Red, it all mattered so much less. And all of the good things, no matter how small, became wonderful. Sybil, top Organizer and Supervisor in Cloudbank, bragged that she was capable of anything; but with Red, she really _felt_ it.

That evening, after saying goodbye, she passed the game center and, after some hesitation, slipped inside.

It was her first time alone in an arcade and she tried to shake off the feeling of being out of place. She circled the crane machines, eyeing the mechanisms, and the prizes — toys, accessories, statuettes, candies, cookies. Red could probably do without any of these things, especially given how messy her apartment usually was...

But...

Sybil paused in front of one of the machines, squinting, thinking. Red didn’t have a flower in her apartment yet, did she?

It wasn’t a real flower — all the better, probably, since Sybil suspected Red wouldn’t know how to care for anything that couldn’t eat flatbread. She eased it off its shelf, rolling it millimeter by millimeter, and when it finally clattered into the drop zone she couldn’t help a happy shriek and dance. She searched for a good box, good wrapping paper, good stationary, and practically ran back into her Sandbox to assemble it all.

_Red_ _will be so happy!_

:::

Dinners, parties, movies, late nights spent planning concerts and poring through magazines and sheet music while keeping them free of flatbread grease. Sybil floated through the days; she followed her calendar, blithely; she didn’t worry, not about things going less than perfectly, not even about the slow and increasing bloat of her inbox.

When she finally did have time to check it properly, she was startled at how many messages she had, and at how little she cared. She gave them a cursory glance, and then threw the terminal onto the sand. Her dog, which for some reason was sitting by the hammock, looked back at her, and then grinned and bounded toward her as Sybil clapped and patted her thighs vigorously.

“Here! Come here! Up, up!” she called, and it barked and obeyed, jumping clumsily into her arms as she let out an “Oof!”

“Good — good girl!” she laughed, and it wriggled in her arms and ran a smooth, cool tongue across her cheek. She kissed its nose, leaving lip prints on the shine of it, and carried it to the hammock. To her delight, someone was already present.

“Grant!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you to come back,” he answered in a low voice.

“Oh! Did we have a meeting? Sorry about that.”

“Sybil —”

“Hey,” she said, rubbing her dog behind the ears until it emitted a happy purr, “how do you like my Sandbox? I guess Royce told you about it?”

“Sybil —”

“It’s so nice in here, we should really start holding our meetings in —”

_”Sybil,”_ he snapped, and Sybil’s mouth clipped shut. She blinked as he pushed himself off the hammock and walked toward her. “Sybil, where have you _been_? You’re not responding to messages. You’re not sending updates on candidates.”

Sybil clutched her dog defensively. “I’ve been busy.”

“Have you completely forgotten our mission?”

“What?” Sybil darkened. She let her dog go onto the sand, and stepped forward, fists clenched and voice low.

“Are you serious, Grant?” she demanded. When he said nothing, she jabbed her finger into his chest. “You know more than else that I would _never_ abandon our goals! If it’s taking me longer to find candidates, it’s because it’s _hard_. People that excel, people that won’t be missed — maybe _you_ should try finding candidates.”

Grant shifted his weight. “I don’t mean it like that.”

Sybil stepped back. She collected her dog again, and headed to her hammock, walking pointedly around Grant without looking at him. Grant followed her.

“Sybil,” Grant called. “I just don’t want to lose momentum.”

“I know, I know,” she muttered.

The wind blew. The fronds rustled; the wavelets murmured; her umbrella creaked. Her dog cocked its head, sniffing Sybil’s chest, precisely over her speeding heart.

“I suppose,” Grant said, “I’m being unfair. I’m just — surprised that it’s taking you so long, to get this next candidate. It’s unlike you. Are you having trouble finding a way to get her alone? That singer?”

“What?” Sybil said. “You mean Red?”

“The singer. That’s the next candidate, correct? It doesn’t seem as if you’ve been spending any time considering anyone else. Honestly, I’m surprised by your method this time — it seems that your relationship is becoming relatively high-profile.”

“Our relationship?” Sybil echoes.

“Yes. What, exactly, are your intentions?”

“My —? I mean — I don’t really — I was just —” _Doing what felt good._ But Grant’s eyes were narrowing now.

“If the singer isn’t the candidate, then what have you been doing this whole time?”

“I have a candidate!” Sybil snapped. “Listen, will you give me some time to be alone and work everything out? I promise I’ll message you soon about it. So, will you just go? _Please_?”

His brow lifted. “Of course,” he said, carefully, and retreated. She heard the crackle and zip of the air as it allowed his exit. Sybil stood, silent, her skirt billowing. Her dog whined in confusion as she gripped it, and she squeezed it harder.


	9. Sky looks blue cause we want it to.

Royce blinked, slow. It was a blink that Sybil recognized as one of utter shock.

“What?” he said.

“Give me,” Sybil repeated in a low voice, “the Transistor.”

“Did you find a candidate?”

“Yeah,” she growled. “A couple ones, in fact.” She held out her hand.

Royce eyed her. He reached for the Transistor’s hilt — and held it in place. Away from her.

“Is this about the altercation today with that singer?” he asked. “You choose the candidates, Sybil, but we work for them together. And I am not letting you contaminate the Transistor with those — mediocre rioters.”

He was right. He was right.

But her hands were shaking, her breath was ragged, her vision was blurred.

How dare anyone attack Red?

How _dare_ they?

“Your judgment is clouded,” he said. “You’re upset, and over-emotional.”

“I am not,” she growled.

“For your sake,” he continued, “I’m going to pretend this didn’t happen.”

:::

No word since the night before. Sybil had her eyes and ears, but she never used them on Red — didn’t want any excuse to say progress was being made on her. Not before she had figured out what to do.

Her hands trembled on her terminal; she backspaced out of several errors before finally managing the message.

_> Hey, Red! You didn’t call me when you got back last night. I hope you’re okay. Call me._

:::

Sybil paced her room. She checked her terminal over and over again. She queried for records of recent purchases from Junction Jan’s, but found nothing that told her anything.

_> Hey, Red, _ she tried. _There’s an event this weekend, they need an opener — want to do it? You’re just the one they need._

:::

Where was she? Was she alright? Should she just go to her apartment and see? Sybil switched between her messages and her planning work, biting her lip, trying to find the right words.

_> Hi Red. I never heard back about the performance last weekend…maybe you’re a little scared? Nervous? I know your last concert was ruined, but — think of the people who love you, you know? Your fans, I mean._

“Yeah,” she said aloud, “that sounds good,” and her dog whuffed out static that she interpreted as approval.

_> There’s another event this weekend, _ Sybil continued, _a little showcase with some other singers. They’re young, but talented, and I’m sure they’d love to meet you…anyway, let me know. I’m here if you want to chat._

There. That sounded alright, didn’t it? She sent the message, and yelled when she saw Red was typing a response.

“Finally!” she cried. And then, to her shocked dog, “Sorry.”

She stared at her terminal screen until the message came in.

_> Hey Sybil I’m sorry to get back to you so late about this but I think I’m going to take a break for a little bit I want to come up with some new stuff._

Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

_> Hello Red! So good to hear back from you. You know you don’t need new things to sing at these performances, all your old stuff is fantastic. Are you maybe scared of performing after what happened last time? If you feel nervous, I’ve got connections with some Security folks. They could escort you!_

Silence. Sybil waited two minutes, and then typed, again.

_> You’ve still got an hour to decide! Verdict?_

Nothing.

:::

Nothing.

She bit her lip.

_Did I do something wrong?_

:::

Nothing.

She tasted blood.

_What did I do?_

:::

Impatiently, she went straight to Red’s apartment to meet with her, and though she was glad to see her, something was wrong. Something was off. Something was _different_.

For one thing, Red was starting to have some strange questions — like what the point of _Selections_ were. Sybil stared.

“But,” she said slowly, “what would you do with your life, if you didn’t have a Selection?” 

“I’m not sure,” Red admitted, looking away. When she didn’t continue, Sybil sighed.

“I’ll tell you what the point of Selections is. They’re so that everyone has a way of making Cloudbank a better place. It’s not that you’re ever forced into one. And having it on file makes things easier for everyone.”

“Does it?”

“Of course!” She explained further, mind racing as she spoke. Maybe — maybe if she could make Red understand — well — Grant had brought Asher in, right? Maybe…just _maybe_ …

“It would just all be better if we could work together,” Sybil said carefully. “If we could all be a united Cloudbank, you know?”

Red didn’t answer.

“Red?” Sybil called. “Don’t you agree?”

“I’m sorry, Sybil,” Red said, not turning around. “Thanks for your help. But I have some…”

“Oh, it’s alright!” Sybil said quickly. “You’re busy, I understand! I’m busy too, you know?”

And she fled, before Red could tell her to go.

:::

 “She was at The Mixin,” Royce said, offhandedly.

“What?” Sybil said. “What are you talking about?”

“That singer. Performed at The Mixin.”

“She was not,” Sybil said. “She’s too scared to perform, after the altercation. I think.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! What are you implying?”

“Just that…” Royce trailed off. Then he said, “Nothing.”

“We plan everything together, Royce,” Sybil told him. “I would have known. She would have told me.”

:::

But Sybil couldn’t help it.

In her Sandbox, she took a deep breath. Filled her lungs with warmth and salted breezes. Peeled the surveillance data from her Process.

And something in her chest stabbed so hard and harsh that her eyes began to water.

:::

> _Hey Red, she_ wrote, _I saw photos of you performing at some kind of tiny stage place. The Mixin, I guess? Does that mean you’re ready to start performing again? Call me, let me know!_

Nothing.

:::

_> I’m really sorry. Whatever I did, can you at least tell me? Please? I’m sorry_.

That one, Sybil didn’t send.

:::

When she finally managed to get a hold of her, even got her to attend an _event_ , Sybil was ecstatic. She met her at the door, as always — hugged her — and then dragged her to see her surprise.

“Students!” Sybil explained. “I thought it might benefit them to speak with you. And it might help you too! Since you seemed confused the other day, about Selections.”

But things didn’t go as she expected. Red dodged their questions, seemed distracted, spent far too much time checking her terminal. Who was she contacting? Sybil dampened her rising temper. Ran after Red as she headed out the door, caught her elbow.

“Yes?” Red turned back, only a bit. “Sorry, Sybil, I’m going to meet someone, so —”

“I know, I know,” Sybil said hurriedly, desperately. “I just — wanted to say thanks for coming. It’s nice to see you. And — and I don’t really know what’s happening with your life right now, why you’re not performing like you used to — and why you’re so confused about Selections — but I just want to let you know —”

_Deep breath, Sybil._

The next words came out all at once. “I just want to let you know I think you’re a fantastic Musician, the best in Cloudbank, and believe me, because I know everyone. You always have been, and you always will be. That’ll never change. So, if you’re afraid...or...something…” Another breath, another burst. “Please don’t be. The way you are is...is perfect.”

She stopped, with a huff, a swallow. There it was. The truest things she knew, and felt.

Red turned back to her. “Thanks, Sybil. I appreciate it,” she said. “The truth is, I’m fine. Maybe even...better than ever. And I’m definitely not going to give up Music. So, don’t worry about me.”

“Oh — okay. Okay,” Sybil said. She held out her arms for a hug, and when Red obliged, she whispered. “I — I’m glad to hear it. Call me, alright?”

“Alright,” Red assured her, and took off.

After the reception was over, after every guest was gone, Sybil’s smile dropped. As she walked home, alone, her terminal beeped with a message.

“Yes!” She fumbled for it so fast that it almost dropped into the canal she was walking beside.

It was from Grant. It had only one word.

_> Candidate_?

Sybil stared. She looked up, to stop her tears from falling. The sun was setting, and the sky was burnished — a Yon-Dale, obviously, so beautiful and perfect and gorgeous despite Sybil’s agony that she wanted to throw her terminal at it.

Instead, she thought, hard. Sniffed. And then she typed, and pressed _send_.

:::

_“Hello, Ms. Yon-Dale. I’m a huge fan.”_

_“Are you? Well, thank you, thank you kindly!”_

_“Sure. It’s, um…horrible. How you were banned.”_

_“Right? Ain’t fair at all. For anyone, you know? Every hour my request backlog just keeps growing, it’s a real shame.”_

_“Yeah…yeah. A real shame.”_

_“Aw, Ms. Reisz, are you alright? Cheer up, hon! Listen, soon as this’s all cleared up, I’ll make a sunrise, just for you. So…so anyway, how does that clearing-up process work, again?”_


	10. I believe the future can be parsed.

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t this.

“Oh,” Red said, “he’s nobody.”

“No…nobody?” Sybil echoed.

“ _Mr_. Nobody,” he repeated, and he grasped Sybil’s faltering hand, shaking it. His hands were huge, foreign; his arms, bandaged. She resisted tugging her hand back and examining it for damage or infection.

“Funny,” she remarked, without humor.

She tried to talk to Red, but he kept butting in. She had the feeling that he was mocking her, and her throat filled with embers and sharp stones, but she maintained her composure. She passed the invitation on, just like she wanted. Red smiled at her and it lit her up inside, and that light stayed for precisely as long as it took for Red to shut the door.

:::

When the event came, Sybil waited at the front of the venue, all night. She kept an eye out, watched carefully.

But all she saw was that man’s black jacket on the back of Red’s chair. His napkin wadded up beside hers on an empty flatbread box. The door closing, on her.

Who was he? How long had he and Red known each other? Sybil thought back, back, back. Was that who Red had been messaging, the night of the previous event? Who she had been so excited to see before? Was it because of this person that Red didn’t have time anymore to contact Sybil about performing? If that was the case, then maybe — maybe it wasn’t Sybil’s fault after all, that Red wasn’t seeing her anymore — she couldn’t be to blame. It was _him_. It was _his_ fault. It was him, he’d changed her. Maybe he was…maybe he was…maybe he was even _stopping_ Red from performing at all, and — in turn — from seeing Sybil.

Yeah, yeah, that was it, that…was much better. Much better than…than if Red had just…

If she’d just…if she’d just gone and…gone.

Sybil made it to her Sandbox, but couldn’t even reach the hammock before just lying down in the sand and spreading out her limbs. She stared skyward. The sky was beautiful (it was always beautiful, now), but the cerise and maroon and crimson of it soon blurred into a bloody mud. She blinked rapidly, in vain.

_Why,_ she demanded, _am I so sad?_

She knew this would happen. Or at least she _should_ have known. It should have been obvious from the beginning.

Everything always changed.

Nothing ever changed.

In the Sandbox, she sat along the shore, stared off into space, her mind skipping, repeating, buzzing. _Red, Red, Red, Red_. She rubbed her arms, which were prickling with goosebumps and crusted with white speckles, maybe the salt from the breezes coalescing on her skin.

_At least I still have the Camerata_ , she thought. _I still have my work. That’s all anyone needs of me, anyway, right?_

_Right?_

The dog whined when she refused to kick around the beach ball, and then whimpered when she lunged and caught it in a tight clutch. Its limbs flailed, and she told herself, _Everything is fine,_ but she didn’t let it go, couldn’t let it go, couldn’t let it go.

:::

“Sybil,” Red said. “Hello.”

“Hey, Red!” And when Red said nothing else: “Um, I’m…glad I caught you.”

She’d sent Process skittering by for a peek, a couple times, but Red had never been in.

Sybil cleared her throat. “You haven’t been responding to my messages…?”

“Ah…sorry about that. I’ve been a little busy.”

“Oh, have you? That’s fine, that’s fine.” Sybil hesitated, then burst ahead. “I just wanted to tell you that there’s a festival tonight, and I thought it might be fun to go together. There’s going to be —”

“Sorry,” Red interrupted. “I don’t really feel like going.”

“Oh…alright. That’s fine.”

Sybil stood there. This was weird, how weird it was between them, when before being together had felt like the most natural thing in the world. After a while Red let the door open further, though, and Sybil slipped in.

She was prepared for the apartment to be cluttered as usual, and instead marveled at how clean it was. No flatbread boxes. No extra jackets. On her desk, Sybil spotted Red’s music, and started.

“Red! Is that your music?”

“Oh...yeah.”

“That’s incredible! It’s so organized. It looks done! Are you done?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me! Does this mean you’re ready to perform now?”

“No,” Red said, looking away.

_“What?”_ Sybil cried. “No? Why not?”

Red still wouldn’t meet her eye. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated? What’s complicatedabout it?” Wen Red didn’t answer, Sybil felt her breath suddenly get short. “Red! What’s the matter with you? This is — this is so unlike you —”

“It’s just complicated,” Red repeated. “I just need to talk to him first.”

“Why? Do you need his — his permission to perform or something?” Her vision began to blur, this time not with tears. It was just as she’d thought, it was just as she’d thought. “Red, I haven’t said anything until now, but that man is — he’s a horrible influence on you.”

“Sybil, please —”

“Ever since you met him, you’ve changed so much —”

“Sy —”

“And now,” Sybil cried, “he won’t even let you perform —”

“Sybil, _stop_ ,” Red said, voice raising, and Sybil’s mouth clipped shut. She stared, hand over her chest. She was so appalled and hurt at being interrupted that it felt like her heart had stopped.

“Sorry,” Red continued, quietly. “But, please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why?” Sybil swallowed, made herself say it. “Did I do something? Is it something I did?”

“No, it’s not you.”

“Just tell me if it is,” Sybil begged.

“It’s not. Really. It has nothing to do with you.”

Sybil sank back down at the table, beside her. She opened her mouth.

“I’d really like to change the subject,” Red told her, and Sybil’s mouth closed again.

“Okay. Sure. Anything you want.” She looked around the apartment, and, at loss for conversation topics, reached for the terminal at the table.

“Um, is this your new terminal? Is this why you haven’t been getting my messages, because yours is broken? This one doesn’t look much better, really. I can give you a new one, you know. I know a good Engineer.”

“It’s not mine,” Red sighed. “Mine is fine. That one’s his.”

“Oh.” Sybil’s mouth pursed. “Why do you have it?”

“I need to return it.”

“Well, what’s the hold up?”

“I have no idea where he is.”

“Why? Where’d he go? I mean — sorry,” Sybil said. “We don’t need to talk about what happened.”

“Thanks,” Red said, and finally, for the first time since Sybil had entered, she smiled. Sybil’s heart raced, and she straightened her back, and she couldn’t help beaming back.

What had Sybil been so worried about? Everything was fine. She was overreacting. Everything was fine. Whatever this person had done…well, maybe what Sybil had with Red didn’t have to go the way of everyone else in her life. Even if there was this new person…well, Sybil didn’t have to give up yet. Not when Red could still smile at her like that.

She could keep trying. All these bad feelings, this depression — it was all keeping her from Cloudbank’s stability anyway. She should be focusing on her work, and getting Red on board with it. Nobody too, if that would make Red happy.

“I...I guess I could help you find him, if that’s what you want,” Sybil offered. “His address should be in here somewhere.”

“If you can find it, you’re a miracle worker.” Red sighed. “I searched it and couldn’t find anything.”

“Yeah? Well, leave it to me!” Sybil hummed brightly as she poked around. She saw a recent message — _I’m sorry come back_ — and swallowed and moved on, quickly. It didn’t take her long to find a massive storage of data on it. Ha! This was easy.

To her surprise, the most recent file included data about Yon-Dale. Amongst pictures and newslinks was a clip from a forum.

_> havent seen Y-D put out a vote recently does anyone know when the next one is??? missing her!!_

There was no answer recorded, but at the bottom of all of the collected assets was a single character: _X._

Sybil shook off a strange chill, and continued on. So he was a Yon-Dale fan. Alright, so was everyone else.

She read on, into a folder labeled _W. Tennegan._

_> Now that Mr. Tennegan has retired, does anyone have recommendations for other series?_

_> He’s retired?! No way, wouldn’t he have said?_

And again, at the bottom of the articles and photos: _X_.

The strength in her hands gave out. The terminal dropped clean out from between her fingers, and Red shouted something, but Sybil swiped the terminal up, murmuring some soothing apology and continuing to go through the data.

Her blood got colder. She paged back, thinking, _Shasberg, Olmarq, Chein, Darzi, Gilande_ and there they were, exactly in that order, with all their information. All of them with an _X_.

Sybil’s throat was dry.

Everything was here.

_Everything._

Somehow, she managed to keep her voice even. “Um, so, have you — you said you looked through the data on this? All the data? And you didn’t…find anything?”

Red shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Sybil said, “um, it doesn’t look like there’s any — any user data in here. But you know, maybe I can, um — I can bring it to someone I know. Maybe they could get the information out of it.”

“Really?” Red asked, and Sybil nodded. She slipped the terminal into her purse, and fled, breathing out a farewell she barely heard.

:::

_It’s over._

As soon as she made it into the Sandbox she threw her terminal across the beach, as if by doing so she could prevent Grant and Asher and Royce from finding out. The dog wagged its tail excitedly to fetch it and Sybil screamed, “ _Stop_ ,” and then just screamed, wordlessly, in disbelief, and horror, and anguish.

She’d worked so hard, and he knew everything.

_IT’S OVER._

She’d worked so hard, and he knew everything.

_I’M A FAILURE._

How did he find out? How did he know? She didn’t even know his name, but he knew everything she’d done, in days he had undone and taken _everything_.

_I’M USELESS._

Red. Sybil’s own endeavors for Cloudbank. Everything, slipping through her fingers, like aways, like always.

_How,_ she wondered, _am I going to tell the Camerata,_ and the mere thought of it brought a fresh wave of grief to her, sent tears cascading down to her chest and open, trembling palms.

No, no, she couldn’t tell them. They trusted her, they trusted her, she couldn’t lose them, she couldn’t lose them.

She gripped the sand. This couldn’t be the end — there had to be a way this wasn’t the end. He knew everything — but, it didn’t seem like anyone else did, not even Red. So, he hadn’t told anyone. Or — or maybe no one believed him. _Plus_ , Sybil didn’t even know him — which was a good sign that he wasn’t well-connected. Or, at least, that the connections he had didn’t matter.

She sucked in a shaky, desperate breath. Yes. Yes. Yes. This wasn’t the end. She just had to get rid of him, and everything would be fine. Her work would continue — Cloudbank would resume its path toward stability and meaning — and Red…

_Deep breath, Sybil._ She wrung her hands, rubbed her knuckles where pearly whiteness had accumulated again. Red, Red, Red…

…well, Red had only known him for a little bit, right? Maybe…they could both go back to the way it was before…and maybe, this time, Sybil could explain everything. Red was so confident — Red was so different than everyone else — Red was smart. Red had understood her, had known her, better than anyone else. Sybil was sure she would understand. Like Asher, Red would understand.

And she’d return. Red would come back. Sybil knew it.

“Yes,” she breathed, and her dog tilted its head. “This isn’t the end. This isn’t the end.”

Her brain was working already, assembling the details.

Everything would be fine. She just had to get rid of him.

And fortunately, she knew exactly what it took to remove someone from Cloudbank.

:::

She planned. And then she went looking.

“Sybil,” he said. “What a surprise.”

But he didn’t sound surprised, or very happy, either. Well, he didn’t seem like too much of a happy person in general. She’d fast-forwarded through feeds of him and had confirmed that all he did really was wander and sulk. She’d found none of his personal data on his terminal, and after a moment she decided that it wasn’t worth looking up either.

_He’s useless_ , she told herself. _Nobody_.

But. No more mistakes. She needed to be sure. Absolutely sure.

She poked, prodded, and felt choked with disgust when he admitted it, that he was the one suppressing Red, that it was all him, just as she’d thought, just as she’d thought. She almost laughed and almost wept. It wasn’t Sybil after all. It wasn’t her. It was all him, just as she’d thought. And that terminal, with all the data, belonged to him too.

She knew it, she knew it.

But what she didn’t expect was that he’d turn and start to leave.

“Just tell her sorry for me, I guess,” he said. “And that she should do whatever she wants. I won’t bother her anymore.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going?” Sybil gasped. No, this wouldn’t work, this wouldn’t work, her plan wouldn’t work if he wasn’t anywhere to be caught. She snatched his sleeve.

“You’re not even going to apologize to her face?” she tried desperately.

“Why? It’s obvious she doesn’t want to see me.” He shook his arm, ineffectually. “Let me go.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Don’t worry,” he told her, “you won’t see me again,” but her fingers only tightened.

“ _Let me go_ ,” he repeated, yanking, but she just reached and grabbed him with her other hand, purse swinging on her arm. She clung, doggedly, glared up at him, and to her shock she saw his face pinched with pain, with an expression that was so familiar.

It was the same one she often when she held the dog, reflecting back to her from its shining chrome.

Her heart shook. She shoved him off her, with a noise of frustration as she put her hands on the sides of her face. He couldn’t leave, if her plan would work. But what could she say? What could she say?

“I can’t...” She stopped, teeth grit. “Just…go…back,” she managed finally, pushing each syllable out between her teeth. Pained. “Go…go back to her. Please. You have to. There’s no other…yes. You have to go back.”

And when he said, “I can’t,” Sybil cried out.

“Why not? She’s waiting. Just go back, and apologize, and —”

“And what?” he told her. “And do what? I’m…I’ve already decided. She deserves better than me. Someone who can actually do something for her.”

She looked at him, finally — really looked at him. She’d thought maybe Red was the only one in this city that could ever understand her. But maybe there were certain things that could only be shared by people who never had anything like Red’s stage. Certain things that could only be shared by people that could only feel light when it was shared with them.

Despite everything, the next words came so easy, so easy.

“So you think you can’t do anything,” Sybil said, crossing her arms. “Well, maybe it’s true. I have no idea what your Selection is” — she looked him up and down — “though it doesn’t look like you spend any time investing in it anyway. In any case, I’m not going to tell you that Red doesn’t deserve the best that Cloudbank has to offer.”

She adjusted her hat, lifted her chin. She could practically see his resolve bending as she went on. She kept going.

“She makes Cloudbank better. More than anyone else ever could — more than you could ever describe. Thousands and thousands of people in Cloudbank, and she’s the only one who makes it shine. And then she polishes you up from the inside out, and you shine too. That’s how you feel, right?”

Her arm in Sybil’s, pulling her close, pulling her alongside. The vibrance of her laughter in Sybil’s ear. The thrill of Red’s happiness, as if it were Sybil’s own.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Sybil said.

_I’m not a failure._

“Don’t waste it.”

_This is the right thing._

“Don’t run away. Go back.”

_For Red, for me, for Cloudbank. For everyone._

“I think I will,” he said, finally, and…

And for the first time since she’d met him, she smiled. With relief, with relief.

Everything would be fine.

:::

Her terminal beeped.

_> Sybil did you find any address info yet?_

_> Yes._

Unlike usual, Red’s response came instantly.

_> Where is he?_

_> Ask him, _ Sybil replied, and leaned back in her hammock. Her hands were shaking. She gripped them, rubbed them, scraped the tops of them, scattering white.

Everything would be fine.

:::

_> sybil. there’s a problem. get over here._

_> What? What happened?_

_> jallaford’s in goldwalk._

_> What?! Who gave him the clearance?_

_> no one._

_> sybil?_

_> sybil. he’s wandering. he’s close._

_> sybil?_

_> Its ok. This is good, an opportunity, be patient, calm down. everything will be fine. tell Grant  & Asher Im on my way 2 Goldwalk Ill meet you all there!!!_

_> Everything will be fine!!_


	11. Problem solving

_“H-hello?”_

_“Hello, Mrs. Platt.”_

_“Are you… you must be —”_

:::

“So many close calls,” Grant murmured.

“It’s fine,” Sybil mumbled, not meeting his gaze. “It’s fine, everything will be fine.”

Jallaford and Platt had shaken Grant and Asher and even Royce, sorta, but they were both nothing compared to Nobody.

And she was almost done with him. Almost done.

Sybil glanced back around the corridor again, making sure everyone was out of earshot. Then she looked back down at the screen.

“You’re calling me because you want to set up a concert, right? Or,” she said, continuing to pat her hair, “maybe you wanted to grab some food?”

“The former,” Red said, “though maybe the latter could come afterward,” and Sybil smiled.

“Yeah. That would be nice.” Sybil paused. Eating together, playing games together, planning things out together. It would be nice to have those again.

_It will happen._

Red would come back.

Everything would be fine.

“So I’ll see you both tonight?” Sybil asked. “For sure?”

“For sure,” Red told her.

“Alright, then. Gotta go. I’ll meet you at the Set.”

“Sybil,” Red started, “wait. Is everything alright?”

Sybil made a smile. Red was so kind. “Yeah. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry, I just need to make sure everything’s perfect. Bye, Red.”

She disconnected.

“Backstage,” she said when she returned to the meeting room, and everyone nodded. Just another plan. Just another candidate.

She opened her umbrella with a clap. Listened to the prattle of the rain. Brushed and scattered white off the backs of her knuckles.

Everything would be fine.


	12. Still figuring things out.

_“Red —!”_

:::

When the green light dissipates, Sybil’s heart leaps to her throat.

Gone.

Both of them are gone.

And —

_“Where,”_ Royce gasps, _“is the Transistor?”_


	13. I love people!

“I have no idea who he was!” Sybil says, and she searches their faces, trying to find evidence that they believe her. Grant and Royce don’t look back. Asher pats her shoulder.

“It’s alright, Sybil,” Asher says, and Sybil nods, her chin jerking.

They speak in low voices that Sybil can’t comprehend because she is pacing with her hands over her ears, trying to keep the echo of Red’s voice in her skull.

“She has to come back,” Sybil cries, “she’s going to come back, she’ll return, I know it, she’ll return,” and Royce frowns at her.

“Stay here, then,” he says, “while we search,” and Sybil nods, nods, nods, nods, nods, nods, as they leave, she nods.

Red would return. She’d return. She’d never hide she’d come back she’d come back. She paces until she drops, suddenly, to her knees, and beneath her bones she feels the stage breathing. Inhaling and not exhaling. The veins of it are about to burst with Process.

Everything is…everything is…

Her body is shaking. Her hands are shaking. Her knuckles are white and the whiteness has spread. To every fingertip. Up both arms. Her increasingly pale face.

Everything is…everything is…

This is the end, probably. This is the end, and she looks at her white body, this is the end and she should want more than for Red to return to return to return, but she doesn’t.

Everything is…everyth_ng is…

:::

_“Hello, Sybil,” she hears, and her eyes jolt up, toward a green light, toward scarlet hair glistening amidst the motes in the spotlight._

_“You’re here!” she gasps. “I waited I waited you’re here you are here you are here I knew you’d return I knew I knew…]_

_She breathes out, and rises, and falls. She reaches for Red, for the Transistor, over and over, lunges and lunges and lunges with desperate wails, but no matter how she tries she can’t take either into her arms, she can’t, she can’t, not until Red does it herself, serving the whispering blade directly into h_r ch_st._

_Sh_ sobs. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts like beautiful music, like ocean breezes, like too much delicious flatbread, like a hand clasping h_rs. Red is near, so close so close so close. S_b_l re_ches._

_[Finally,] sh_ murm_rs. Oh, finally. Red is so near so ne_r so n__r. Sh_ spr__ds h_r _rms._

_Finally f_nally f_n_lly w_ c_n b_ —_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....and with this....my Transistor series is finally finished -collapses-
> 
> If you've made it here, thank you so much for reading. And I hope you have a good day and stuff! ♥()


End file.
